


I need you so much closer

by cherryvanilla



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5+1 Things, Early in Canon, Episode Related, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, Episode: s04e18 The Monster at the End of This Book, M/M, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Pining, Pre-Series, Romance, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 17:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9082573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryvanilla/pseuds/cherryvanilla
Summary: “That guy you're with, he's cute,” Sam hears on his way back from the bathroom, and freezes around the corner from where Dean is seated at the end of the bar. “Yeah? You think so?” Sam can picture his expression so clearly, one corner of his mouth upturned in a smirk, eyes dancing.“I do. You're a lucky man.” (Or, five times they're mistaken for a couple plus one time they actually are)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eternalsojourn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalsojourn/gifts).



> Begins pre-series (with underage pining but no sexual content) and continues on through Season 4, going vague au sometime after that. Very much a throw back to old school wincest that I never wrote back in the day despite being in the fandom, yet have somehow found myself drowning in as of late. 
> 
> I told eternalsojourn to tell me what she'd want to see me write if I ever wrote this pairing. She said the magic words "5 times" and gave me this prompt and that's all she wrote. Once again I said 'never', yet here I am. 
> 
> Huge thanks to eternalsojourn's cheerleading, and Lyssie and Abby's beta <3
> 
> Title by Death Cab for Cutie.

It happens all the time now. It’s happened more times than Sam can keep track of, honestly. But of course there was a first time. There’s always a first time for everything, after all. 

1.

The first time, he’s 15 and they’re dumped somewhere in the middle of the country while their dad goes off chasing who knows what. Sam would normally be pissed off, starting to hate the uprooting and instability and utter _weirdness_ of his life more and more with each passing year. Except it’s summer, and Dean didn’t go with Dad this time, which has been happening a lot more lately -- the older Sam got. He never told Dean that he’d sometimes cry himself to sleep at night, those times, imagining a world in which they both didn’t come back. Or worse, in which only Dean didn’t. He knew it was a terrible thought, one that found him kneeling at his bedside one night, praying to whatever god may or may not exist for forgiveness, but he also couldn’t help it. He’d choose Dean over his dad any day. He’d choose Dean over anyone in the world, really. 

So, yeah, Sam can’t complain when it’s just the two of them, riding in the Impala that’s now officially Dean’s, the wind in Sam’s hair as they head off to find a place to stay until their dad meets back up with them in a week or two’s time. 

Dean’s in a good mood, loose and carefree in ways Sam doesn’t normally get to see him. Sometimes Dean seems like the oldest 19-year-old in the world, worrying about their dad, worrying about Sam, only seeming to relax fully when he’s around a pretty girl in town or when it's just the two of them.

There aren’t any girls in sight now, though. Just Sam, and Dean’s looking over at him, grinning like Sam’s the best thing in world next to the car he’s driving and the AC/DC he’s singing along to. 

Sam ignores the flip in his stomach, but still can’t seem to match the intensity of that smile back. He mentally kicks himself when he sees some of the light go out in Dean’s eyes. 

“Almost there, Sammy,” Dean says, voice gentler than normal, probably thinking Sam’s pissed off by their situation again. 

Sam shakes off the unease and tries to relax into the seats. He eventually manages to, listening to Dean tell a stupid story about the last odd job he had at the record store while Sam was in his latest of many schools, with people he never truly got to know. 

By the time they get to the motel Sam’s shaken off the odd curl in his gut that he tries not to think about too hard, despite it happening more frequently lately. They're out of the car and a moment later he's under Dean’s arm, getting a noogie as he tries to twist away, laughing. 

“Take you out for some barbecue with my commission there, Sammy. Hid some of it from Dad.”

Sam’s too caught on the fact that Dean actually hid something from their father to really process the rest. By the time he does, they're standing by the guy at the front desk, and Sam’s smiling dumbly, Dean’s arm still draped over his shoulder. 

“Your finest room, sir,” Dean says, voice sarcastic, cheesy, and happy all at once, and just the way Sam loves him. 

The guy is not as taken by Dean as Sam.

“I'll bet,” he snorts. “That'll be a king, then?”

His eyes shift between the two of them meaningfully. 

Sam feels Dean tense up before he even looks at him, his hand tightening on Sam’s shoulder as he straightens. 

“Hey, asshole,” he barks. “Not only is he 15, but he's my brother. Two queens.” 

The guy has the decency to look chagrined, but Sam’s too busy trying not to blush and to will his stomach to quit tensing. He has to look away as Dean pays and gets the key. 

Sam tries not to focus on the fact that Dean mentioned his age before their relation, as if that would be the sticking factor if -- 

No. Sam can't go down that road because it leads to nothing good. Nothing good at all. He forces himself not to think about how he and Dean still did share a bed up until a few years ago. Now, when it was all three of them, their dad either got them a cot or one of them camped out on the floor in a sleeping bag. 

Sam’s quiet as they head up to the room, still lost in thought, and continues to be once they get settled. Dean comes out of the bathroom, drying his hands and humming something Sam doesn't recognize.

“You okay, squirt?”

Sam wrinkles his nose at the nickname and nods. 

Dean sits next to him on the edge of the bed and knocks their shoulders together. “Hey. I'm sorry that happened back there.”

Sam meets his gaze, surprised by the concern in his eyes. 

“Uh. No big deal, man.”

Dean nods, a jerky motion, but doesn't look like he believes it. “Just, uh. That might end up happening now. You're getting older and taller and people see two teenagers and I dunno. Assume dumb shit. Would probably be even worse if you were a girl.”

Sam thinks about that, hates that he feels a pang of regret that he isn't. 

“Anyway,” Dean says, “point is, liking dudes isn't, like, a bad thing or something, Sammy. It's just a little weird when people think you're banging your underage brother, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam says dully. “Weird.” 

Dean jostles his shoulder again, and Sam fights off the sparks that course through his body. 

“C’mon, we’re going out. B-B-Q, baby!” 

Then Dean’s off the bed and whistling and putting on cologne like he does when he thinks there might be girls around. Sam pretends it's for him, though. That they're going out on a date, and Dean isn't his brother, just some guy he's allowed to like because he's 15 and he's supposed to be thinking about sex and what he might like his body to do with another person.

“I do like guys,” Sam wants to tell him that night, when they're full of food and Dean is laughing, arms spread wide in the booth, looking younger than Sam’s seen him in ages. 

But he doesn't. Because Dean would probably tease him the way he did after Sam’s first crush on a girl, and Sam wouldn't be able to describe his type of guy without describing his brother to a T. 

Some things were better left unsaid. 

2\. 

There's a ton of times after the first, but it's when it happens when they're back on the road together that gets him the most. Sam has a very clear divider in his mind. Pre-Stanford Dean and post-Stanford Dean. Or more accurately: pre- and post-Stanford Sam, and how he’s learned to compartmentalize his brother. Sam’s done a good job getting over it, as much as you can get over something like that. It should've been easier, he thinks. He's hardly the first person to ever crush on a family member (his Psych 101 course made that perfectly clear), but most people grow out of it quickly, or it's just some fleeting thought. 

Sam never felt he was leaving Dean when he walked out that door that night, but part of him knew he was. Because as much as he couldn't imagine being without Dean back then, he knew he'd never have a chance at normal if he didn't separate himself from Dean, almost as much as removing himself from Dad and hunting. 

So Sam ran and miraculously managed to fall in love with someone who doesn't share his blood, and yet he left her the second his brother asked. Now she was gone, and Sam was back to not knowing what to do with the way his heart sometimes skips a beat when Dean gives him a vulnerable smile.

Since they've been on the road together, Dean’s told him when it happens (“punk kid thought we were together”), and they've both been there for it other times (“um, no, we’re not--”, “okay, honey?”), but it's the time when Sam overhears it that he remembers vividly. 

They're at a bar, and Dean just wants him to be happy, Sam knows it, but it's only been months since Jess, and Sam’s not really going to be forgetting that image or the fact that he'll never wake up next to her again anytime soon, and no girl who knows how to shoot a mean game of pool will change that. 

“That guy you're with, he's cute,” Sam hears on his way back from the bathroom, and freezes around the corner from where Dean is seated at the end of the bar. 

“Yeah? You think so?” Sam can picture his expression so clearly, one corner of his mouth upturned in a smirk, eyes dancing.

“I do. You're a lucky man.” 

Sam stills and holds his breath, foolishly hanging on Dean’s next words. 

“Oh, um, we’re uh--”

“Where’d you two meet?”

“Known him my whole life,” Dean mutters, and Sam risks a peek around the corner, sees Dean downing half his beer, color high on his cheeks. 

“Childhood sweethearts,” she coos, and Sam feels a flush of embarrassment at the same time he sees a look of discomfort cross Dean’s face. 

“Something like that,” Dean replies, and the look plus his tone sobers Sam. Reminds him why he pushed this all away, buried it deep inside. 

Sam’s ready to walk out from his hiding place when he hears Dean clear his throat. “Look, what made you thi -- I mean, uh, how’d you tell that we were...” He trails off, and Sam looks over to see him making a gesture that's more awkward than crude. Sam would be almost endeared if he weren't so shocked that Dean wasn't correcting her.

“The way you look at him.”

Dean chokes on his beer, spitting it gracefully across the bar. She wrinkles her nose while he hastily napkins it up. “The-- sorry, what?”

“You look at him like you'd die for him.”

 _Because you're my brother. And I'd die for you,_ Sam had told him last week. 

“You look at him like he's everything you'll ever need, and you've stopped looking for anything else.”

Sam isn't sure his heart is beating as he watches Dean stare at her, then down at the bar. 

“How does he look at me?” 

Sam barely catches it, Dean’s words a whisper, coated in vulnerability. 

Sam knows it's sheer self-preservation and cowardice, but he's moving before he can even think, clapping Dean loudly on the back before she can answer. 

“Hey,” he says, hoping his voice isn't shaking, much less his hand. 

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean breathes, clearing his throat again. “This is--”

“I was just going,” the girl says, looking between them and smiling. “Have a good night, boys.”

Her tone is suggestive, and Sam’s fingers clench on Dean’s shoulder reflexively before moving away, his heart still pounding. 

“Struck out?” Sam makes himself say, downing the rest of Dean’s beer.

“Something like that,” Dean says, an echo of his earlier statement and no less haunted. “Bitch,” he adds at Sam’s theft, a beat too late, stealing his beer back regardless of its empty state. 

“Jerk,” Sam replies, because it's expected. He wants to go over to the woman and ask what she was gonna say, hates himself for not letting Dean hear it. Wonders if it would've changed anything about their night.

But he can't waste time on might-have-beens. Because their whole lives were might-have-beens, ever since that fire. Ever since both fires. 

Dean watches him a little more closely after that, and Sam doesn't read too much into what the woman said, because that's just Dean being Dean. He's always put Sam first.

Sam tells himself nothing has changed, because it hasn't. 

3\. 

Sam ends up dying, and Dean brings him back, sealing his own fate in the process because Dean’s a selfish bastard who can't live without him (as if Sam’s supposed to). 

Sam obsesses over how to break the deal. And then they go to the mystery spot. 

After, with the gut punch still heady and Dean’s actual fate still lingering over his head, Sam thinks about how many of the times happened during that endless string of Tuesdays. 

How many times Dean ended up saying, “Sammy, you get me all tingly when you take charge like that,” for show at the diner. How many people in town, especially the waitress, just assumed they were together. How many times Sam thought about telling Dean how he felt, or just throwing caution to the wind and kissing him because what did it matter, Dean would still be dead before morning and not remember anything and Sam still wouldn't be able to do a thing to save him. 

Lately, he finds himself wondering why he hadn't. It would've been the perfect set up. The perfect way out if it went badly. The perfect way to gauge Dean’s true feelings on the matter.

It felt dishonest, though. As if he was using some version of Dean who couldn't completely consent because he didn't have all the facts. That's where Sam’s brain finds itself more often than not now. Caught in an endless loop of Dean and feelings and repression and death he can't stop. 

“Penny for your thoughts, man,” Dean asks now, while tapping his fingers on the wheel to the Zeppelin he’s got on low. 

And Sam’s gotta be giving out some kind of massive vibes (currently caught up in those endless 6 months in which he saw the empty shell of his life without Dean) if Dean actually wants to hear what’s going on in Sam’s head, and possibly have a _feelings_ discussion. 

“They’re none too exciting, man,” Sam lies, and it’s like Dean knows. Like he’s about to say _can we stop keeping shit from each other, man?_ and God, it makes him ache. 

“Eh, I dunno about that, Sammy. Know you’ve got a kinky side in there somewhere.” 

Sam nearly chokes on his tongue, and even though Dean’s just trying to get a rise out of him, naturally the first thing he thinks of is, you know, incest. He's seriously got problems. 

Dean’s trying, Sam can tell. Pushing past his comfort zone, wanting Sam to just talk to him, open up. 

Sam looks out the window, muscle in his jaw twitching. “Some stuff isn’t -- it’s better to not talk about, man.” 

Dean’s quiet for long enough that Sam seeks a glance. “If that’s how you feel, man.” His voice is low, maybe hurt. 

_You don’t want to know, seriously,_ Sam thinks desperately. To Dean he says, “You wanna -- find a place, play some pool after we stop?” 

“Sure, Sam,” Dean says, but his voice is tight, and Sam doesn’t know how to defuse the tension. 

That night, no one mistakes them for a couple, Dean disappears with a waitress for 30 minutes, and Sam tries not to let the knowledge of it burn in his throat. 

He relives those Tuesdays again in his head, skipping the death parts. He can't ever go back there again, to be honest. The pain is still too palpable. 

Dean comes back, flushing when he meets Sam’s eyes. 

Sam gulps down some beer, skin tingling, eyeing the mark beneath Dean’s jaw and wondering if it’d still feel hot if he put his mouth there. 

When Dean meets his eyes again, Sam freezes, thinking every thought in his head is readable on his face. 

He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed when Dean doesn’t push it anymore, launching into a debate about if Zeppelin or Floyd holds up better, while Sam pretends to be bored to tears. 

Dean keeps shooting him little looks the rest of the night, and Sam never quite settles down, but somehow it’s morphed into anticipation rather than tension. 

He knows enough not to expect any sort of pay-off, though. He has years of practice, there. 

4\. 

Dean dies and Sam can't bring him back and there he is again, months alone and succumbing to things he never thought he would, because all he wanted was to figure out how to get Dean back, how to make that happen.

Until he's suddenly there again, and Sam had been going through the motions for four months, fucking anything thing that moves and drinking like a fish. 

All of that's forgotten when he's got his arms around Dean. 

“So are you two, like, together?” is what Ruby says as they pull apart, but Sam can't take his eyes off his brother, still feels branded by his touch -- a hug that was everything, yet not enough. 

It's fitting that it should happen again the very second he gets Dean back; once more, Sam is reminded again of four months alone, with no one to be mistaken as his lover. He never hung around anyone long enough, and Ruby -- well, she hasn't been Dean to him. He needed her around to help him get to this moment, and now it suddenly happened anyway. He's got questions for her later, but right now he's got more important matters. 

Dean hasn't stopped looking at Sam either, like he's forgotten Sam’s features and needs to re-catalogue them all. Sam’s eyes rake over Dean’s body, making sure he's whole, unable to believe he is when the last time he saw him he'd been practically ripped in two. 

He's the most beautiful thing Sam’s ever laid eyes on. 

“Here, you -- probably want this back,” Sam says later, hands shaking as he takes off the amulet that hasn't left his skin once since Dean left.

Dean’s eyes are a complicated mix of hurt and hope and regret and love, and Sam wants nothing but to hold him again, push his face into Dean’s neck and breathe in his scent, kiss his skin and palm his way down his body to ensure he really is real. Except Dean’s just gotten back from literal hell, and that's a lot to weigh on someone who still seemingly has no interest in kissing him, despite the increasingly intense looks Dean kept giving him during the last few months before the deal went through. 

Sam bottles it up, pushes it down. It should be easy by now.

It isn't. 

5\. 

“As in, ‘together’ together?”

“Yeah.”

“They do know we're brothers, right?”

“Doesn't seem to matter,” Sam says, voice gentle, reasonable, even as he wants to add _doesn't matter to me either, Dean. Fuck, it's never mattered to me._

“Oh come on. That’s… that's sick,” Dean says, closing the laptop, sounding slightly flustered, and also disgusted. Sam shrugs, ignoring the way his stomach revolts a little. 

Throughout everything with Chuck and the books, the main thing Sam thinks about is how many of these Sam/Dean people there are out there, and if they’re okay with (hell, even turned on by) the thought of him and Dean, without even knowing them. And, well, who’s to say it's wrong when Sam can't think of anything more right. He still doesn't expect anything to ever happen. He's done with the wishful thinking, despite those times when Dean has one too many drinks, smiles far too loose, stares a little too long. He's made his peace with this, has for a while now, and if Dean wants to call it sick, well -- it'll just be one more thing they don't see eye to eye on. 

After the dust settles, and it's just the two of them again, always alone at a motel at the end of the day, Dean brings it up. 

“I, uh. About all of that.” 

“Yeah?” Sam says, pulse picking up. 

“Some of it -- I mean, it could've been my fault. Or something. I don't know, man.” 

“Dean, what are you talking about?” Sam’s seated between their beds, hands folded together on his lap. Dean’s knees could be touching his if they were angled right. 

“People say shit about us.”

“I know that,” Sam huffs. As if every single time they've been mistaken for a couple isn't burned in his brain like a brand.

“To me, though. About us. Women in bars. Commenting how I -- I dunno, look at you.”

And yeah, Sam knows that too. Except he didn't know it was multiple women. He swallows hard, opens his mouth, but Dean’s continuing on. 

“And that guy, when we had to stake out that gay bar a few months back because of that vengeful spirit. Telling me I nabbed the ‘hottest stud in the joint’ and honestly, Sam, you hear this shit enough and --”

Sam’s not sure he's breathing. “And what, Dean?” The words are hoarse, his hands smoothing up and down his own thighs while Dean looks around the room, jaw tense. 

“It puts it in your mind, I guess. I dunno, Sammy.” Dean looks at him quickly, looks away. “My point is, it was -- bad enough half of middle America thought we were boning just because we were standing next to one another, but now a ton of chicks on the internet do too? Or want us to, even if they don't necessarily know we're real. So, maybe it's my fault, with the looks or -- I dunno. Jesus Christ, can you say something?”

“Dean, you're rambling.”

“Yeah,” he says, licking his lips and ducking his head. 

Want lurches within Sam, acute and aching. 

“You said it's sick,” Sam reminds him. 

“It is,” Dean says immediately.

“Soooo…?” Sam asks, waving his hands in front of them. 

“Yeah, well. Who am I to authoritize on normal?” 

Sam takes a deep breathe, heart stuttering in his chest. 

“It's not -- none of this is your fault, Dean. Stop playing big brother for a second, alright? It was never -- it's me, okay?” Sam looks down at his knees, hears the blood rushing in his ears. “It's always been me,” he exhales on a breath.

There's silence for a beat before Dean speaks. “What’re you talkin’ about, Sammy?”

Sam looks up at him, lightening fast, steeling his gaze. “I don't think it's sick, alright?” His accent is thicker, the way it always gets when he's emotional. “Or, I dunno, maybe it is. But so are demons and what happened to you in Hell and what happened to Mom and Jess. All I know, Dean, is the only thing that's ever made sense to me is you. The two of us. And if there's something wrong with that --”

“I swear to God, Sam, if you break into a chorus of ‘if loving you is wrong I don't wanna be right’...”

Sam’s lips twitch. “You said it, man, not me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, rubbing at his eyes with his fingers. 

“Dean…” Sam says, sitting up a little straighter even as he leans a little closer.

When Dean’s eyes meet his, there's fear there but there's also -- shit, there's want. If that's existed within Dean before, he held it from his eyes till now. Sam would've remembered. 

“How long?” His voice is rough, and it washes over Sam like warm water. 

“What?” Sam asks, mouth hanging open, breathing loudly in the space between them. 

“How long have you -- you know.”

Sam sighs, feeling like they're back to square one already. If Dean can't even _say_ it…

“A long time, man.” Sam pauses, bites his lip. He's come this far. There's no going back anymore. “Since -- since I was like, 14, 15.”

He sees a flash of pain cross Dean’s face, and Sam’s stomach drops. 

“Dean...” he says again.

Dean holds a hand up. “Just. I need some time, Sammy, okay?” 

“Yeah,” Sam says, swallowing thickly. “Of course.”

Dean gets up and goes into the bathroom. Sam hears the shower turn on and tries not to dry heave just from the bundle of nerves in his stomach. 

Dean throws the door open while he's wrapped in nothing but a towel. “Was it something I did?”

Sam tries not to look at the drops of water sliding down Dean’s chest, keeps his eyes instead on the way Dean’s gripping the door. 

“Huh?” 

“When we were kids,” snaps Dean. “Is it something I --”

Sam laughs, cutting him off. It was so Dean to try and borrow guilt, even when there was none to be had. Not for Sam, anyway. “No, man,” he says, shaking his head, a few strands of hair falling in front of his face. “No, Dean. It's just. You. Being -- you.”

Dean’s expression goes smug for the briefest of moments, and Sam rejoices in it. It's familiar, recognizable, and exactly what he needs right now. Then it clears and he slams the door again. 

Sam sighs, rises to get undressed for bed. Dean comes out when Sam’s in his boxers and a t-shirt, tugging at the the comforter of the bed. 

“Ah, fuck this,” Sam hears from somewhere near his shoulder, and then he's being spun around and Dean is shoving inward and upward and fuck, _fuck_ , that's Dean’s mouth on his and those are Dean’s fingers gripping his forearms. 

Sam does nothing for long seconds, to the point that Dean pulls back just enough to mumble, “Really, Sam? 10 years of incesteous pining and this is the best you can do?”

Sam snaps into motion then, fog lifting, reality of _this is happening, this is really fucking happening_ hitting him hard, and Sam will be damned if Dean’s gonna be more cool about this than him. 

He growls and frames Dean’s face in his hands, leans down a little more and kisses him with everything he has, kisses him the way he's always wanted to and never dreamed he would. Tongues and teeth and mouth melding like this was always how it was supposed to be be. 

“That good enough for you, jerk?” Sam gasps when they finally break apart, his lips trembling along with the rest of his body. Dean’s shirtless but has boxers on again, and Sam’s fingers haven't moved from their spot on the small of his back, terrified to slip further without a green light. 

Dean snorts. “Hardly, bitch.” But he doesn't sound unaffected as he tumbles Sam down onto the bed for some hardcore grinding and making out, so Sam calls it a win. 

Eventually Sam’s hands slip lower, and the sound Dean makes when Sam urges him closer, tighter, fingers clenching on his bare cheeks of his ass, is like his own personal heaven. The sounds Dean makes while Sam’s doing his best to fuck him into his mattress just from the weight of his thighs and searing hot heat of his mouth, gliding up and down Dean’s neck, will be forever etched in his memory. Sam bottles it all up, the tastes, the smells, the way Dean laughs incredulously at one point (probably when Sam’s licking at his nipple slowly as if he’s discovered a new planet) like he can’t believe he’s really letting this happen. It’s like time has slowed down and there’s nothing but Dean and the shitty, scratchy comforter and the slide of the hair on their legs against one another and weight of their tongues coming together and inching apart. 

After, they lay side by side on their backs, blinking up at the ceiling. 

“So,” Dean says. 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, even though he doesn't know if that's a “so that can never happen again” or “so you just made me come so hard I saw stars” ‘so’. 

Sam's not even trying to disguise the fact that his chest is still heaving, his body loose and languid, endorphins surging. He feels too good, regardless if he's about to be shot down. He’ll replay the memory like a worn out VHS tape if he has to, and eventually it’ll become another ache that settles within him. 

“So I can't promise I'm gonna be good at this.”

Sam’s jaw snaps shut and he looks at Dean, who hasn't taken his eyes off the ceiling. 

“Okay…” Blood pumps fast through his veins; he feels dizzy from the whiplash of his resigned thoughts versus the hopeful words falling from Dean’s lips. 

“And I can't promise I'm not gonna freak out.”

Sam lips begin to pull at a smile, of their own accord. There’s a weightless feeling in his chest that might be what euphoria feels like. “Right.”

“But I'm willing to give it a shot and that's all we’re saying on the matter right now.”

Dean finally looks at him, gaze challenging, and Sam’s smiling wide enough that his face hurts. 

Dean rolls his eyes, but he looks happy. Nervous, but happy. Sam’s heart expands. 

“And you don't get to be the big spoon, either.”

Sam laughs. “Sure, Dean. Whatever you say.” 

______________________

+1 

“We’d like a room, please,” says Sam, Dean standing close beside him, heat radiating off his body. They were coming off a hunt, and Sam’s since learned the benefits of keyed-up, ‘fuck yeah we’re alive’ post-hunt Dean and how to reap them. 

The woman looks them up and down, eyeing the way Dean’s got his hand pressed into the small of Sam’s back, idly rubbing. 

“King?”

“Only the best for my sweetheart,” Dean answers before Sam can. “Hell, it's our anniversary, give us the best room you got.” 

Dean throws down the latest stolen credit card, and Sam flushes, then shivers as Dean’s fingers walk slowly up his spine. 

“Sure,” the clerk says, turning away on a smirk to grab the key. 

“You're incorrigible,” Sam hisses. 

“Mm, I love it when you talk dirty to me, baby.” His voice is just shy of too loud.

The clerk laughs, and Sam groans. 

“I hate you.”

Dean gives him a sunny grin. “Please, dude, this is a blast. Should've been doin’ it all along.” 

Sam raises one eyebrow slowly, and Dean blushes immediately. “Shut up,” he mumbles. 

“It's not our anniversary,” Sam says as they walk up to the room. Because he actually remembers stuff like that, even if Dean hates it. 

Sam watches as Dean shrugs, fitting the key in the lock and pushing the door open. “It's us, Sam. Today's bound to be an anniversary of _something_.

Sam freezes in the doorway and just stares after Dean. It's probably the most unintentionally romantic thing he's ever said. Sam’s cheeks heat and his smile is uncontrolled. 

“Oh, man, _waterbed_!” Dean exclaims. 

Sam focuses enough to step through the door just in time to see Dean bouncing on it. 

“Oh jeez,” Sam says, closing the door behind them. He plays at exasperation for Dean’s benefit, but he feels anything but. 

It's as if the pieces to the puzzle have all been slotted into place now

Sam joins his brother on the waterbed in some nondescript motel in Michigan and takes in the surrealness of his life. 

Sometimes the path of the road to how they got here gets unclear, and Sam tries to trace back each moment to a starting point. Until he realizes the only important part is that they made it. 

End.


End file.
